Fix These Eyes
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: Lizzie goes to Red in the rain instead. This changes everything. [Post 2x20 AU, Lizzington]


_A/N: In other news: these idiots are still ruining my life, and that rain scene was so underwhelming that I needed to fix it. So. Ahem. Here you go. I fixed it. There's a mature part in here, by the way. In part two. Mind the breaks and gird your loins for the angst. Disclaimed. Reviews much appreciated, por favor. I may add a second part, depending on how much I want to write resolution and fluffy Lizzington._

* * *

 _/_

Later, she won't know _what_ possesses her.

What foreign entity invades her chest cavity and curls, infects her limbs, makes her push past the vague sense of awareness that she has to blast her windshield wipers and the streets are dark and dangerous; won't know what drives her to do all this in the rain, but really— it might've been the call. It _was_ the call.

He called her.

Which, under the circumstances, that could be construed as a normal occurrence, except—

Except.

Except: he hadn't left a message.

And she doesn't know _what_ to call the animal within her that whimpers at the mindset, at the way she almost left so much unsaid because he'd had a landmine in his chest, and yeah. Yeah, they got it out. The landmine is gone. And anyway—that was four, maybe five days ago. She should be over it.

She's not.

Not even a little bit, even if there's been a picture to worry about, and a blurred woman's smile that looks like something she sees in the mirror, and all the uncertainty that comes with not knowing her own body. She's Russian. Jesus fuck, she's _Russian._

And it's her two feet standing stock still over this principal.

This is a habitual _thing,_ that:

He didn't leave her a message.

And God, there's so many missed calls between them.

She stood behind a plastic curtain and watched figures move in pale blue scrubs splattered with his life, and she thought of all the calls she never took. Selfish. She'd been selfish, and she's still being selfish, but she can't help it. Maybe it's in her blood, and she doesn't totally know where some of her blood even originates from, so. They've got these habits. They've got this _routine._

All the words he might have said that she didn't want to listen to had spun and scratched in her ears like a record that needed to be ejected and cleaned with spit and thumb, and he could've died. He really could have died. Stopped breathing. Gone cold. Gotten hard.

And God, she's not over it.

Truth is, she doesn't know if she has it in her to be over it.

And so something possesses her. Once, a long time ago, when she could still perch on Sam's lap and think of him as 'Daddy' without feeling like a liar, she might've called it something simple, but now it's just a wild thing _._ Sacred, tale as old as time. Ugly with the way it moves. The way it's raining, and she can hear the thunder rumble to the point that it shakes the glass panes in her car, and she finds a parking spot, and this isn't pure. This isn't clean.

(She's had dreams, these past few days. Red is gurgling and his eyes are bulging and their fingers are slipping and sliding together with the rest of his life pouring out, and sometimes his hands are already relaxed with death, and sometimes she has to watch the life leave his eyes. Truth is, the latter is what makes her wake up unable to stop screaming hysterically, wild, wild.)

She doesn't know what possesses her. She doesn't know why she doesn't flinch at the splattering of water on her cheeks, soaking every part of her. There isn't a place to buzz in. Old and decrepit are the words he used _,_ but really this is just the kind of place that seems like home. A middle-class apartment, Formica for the countertops, chipped paint, marking the heights of children behind the door. If Raymond Reddington is capable of being a human being, this is where his bones come to rest.

And she knows he's here.

The animal that possesses her knows the way dogs know people are in their home, and God, it says a lot that when she creeps up the stairs, mindful. The way every cell in her body stands on end in anticipation, and she knows the pivots of the corridor even if she's only been here twice.

It says a lot; the way her knuckles positively ache when she knocks.

She's dripping wet, shiny, black dress shoes squeaking on the hardwood as she shifts her weight.

Elizabeth Keen feels her ears prick when weight settles on the other side of the door. Shuffling.

Somehow, she knows it won't be Dembe.

A bolt lock she hadn't realized existed triggers, and the creak of the hinges as it swings open sends a bout of air wafting in her face, against her moist skin, and—

Lizzie shivers when he's suddenly there, in the flesh. His presence is something that still, even after nearly two years, it's still something that makes her hyper-aware. Visceral, the way he exists. He's in his usual. Dress pants. No vest, but still. Red never dresses down. She wonders how he'd cut a pair of jeans.

Licks her lips, and then—

Shit.

Shit. There. _There's_ the self-awareness. There's the wake up, and all because he's looking at her—

She's dripping wet, she realizes.

In the span of exactly two point seven seconds since he opened his door, Red takes her in and then:

"Lizzie."

His eyes are narrowed. Confused, the way one eyebrow is at his hairline, mouth pulled down awkwardly. Red's limbs shift, reach out on instinct to grasp her arm. Pull her inside.

"Red, I—

She breaks off abruptly, like her batteries have fallen out.

But he's already disappeared, and she feels the door fall shut on its own accord. There's a scent in the air of spices, cooking. The puzzle on the table is still out, but most of her destruction earlier in the day has been rectified. It looks as if she never came through like a hurricane, like a force of nature, and God, she's glad. She never wanted to ruin this for him, even if she doesn't understand it.

Her eyes snap to him as he reenters the living space. In his hands is a thick, worn-looking towel.

Without hesitation, he moves close, wraps it around her shoulders. It reminds her of the way Sam would care for her. Automatic. "Why are you here?" he finally asks, quiet.

He sounds tired. For a moment, she worries she woke him up. He moved so carefully when he went to retrieve her a towel, as if he's in pain. She hopes he has good pain medication. His question goes unanswered, and her mind keeps going, keeps turning. It feels like everything is spinning, and Lizzie manages to figure out that she's shivering when Red touches her shoulder, pats her.

She clears her throat, and the sound tears in the silence.

"Where's Dembe?" she wonders, instead of replying logically.

She finds her eyes glued to the source of the heady aroma in the air. A pot is resting on the gas stove. She thinks it smells like soup. Campbell's soup. Sam always made her Campbell's chicken noodle. She'd know it anywhere. Huh.

He follows her gaze. Red sighs softly. "Dembe is running errands for me." He catches her attention by squeezing her damp shoulder. The lavender of her blouse has darkened so much. "Lizzie, _what's wrong_?"

His tone is what gets her.

She's scaring him.

"You didn't leave a message," she remembers, suddenly, sharply. Oh. Right. The whole point of any of this. The missed call. The missed conversations, and words, and thoughts. She needs to know what he thinks. She needs to know what he knows, and yes. Yes, he was going to tell her.

He was calling to tell her something. She knows it.

Red purses his lips. "No," he agrees. "I didn't."

He takes a step back, away from her. Ventures into the kitchenette, repositioning a bowl in the sink. Lizzie watches him. Tries to find the right thing, even if it's already there. Waiting.

"You were calling to say something that couldn't be said in a voicemail," she reiterates. Bunches the cloth around her shoulders tighter. The towel smells like him. Everything smells like Red and Campbell's soup, and she's never thought of an entity more strangely appealing in her life.

Red, in response to her words, shrugs. His right eye twitches, even though she can't see that.

She doesn't see this, but he's trying so very hard not to tense up. She doesn't know this, but he knows where this conversation is going. What she's getting at. And he's not ready for it. She'll never be ready for it, and God, it's a dead horse with a stick, and—

"Were you going to…" she starts, but he finishes.

"No."

Bleak. Hard. A multitude of emotions summarized in a single sentiment, and suddenly the nonchalance he's exuding, the disassociation she's facing internally snaps like a rubber band, her heart in her throat. Sudden. It's so sudden, the way the moment shifts on a dime.

"Why not?" Lizzie goes, critical. Pulse rising by the millisecond.

"Lizzie," he exhales raggedly. Turns around to explain again, and again, and again, but she stops him. Pushes.

"Why not?" she voices hotly, stepping forward. Nostrils flaring. Hair falling in thick, wet pieces everywhere. "Why not, Red?"

She doesn't know what possesses her to press, push, but she is. But she has to.

She has to because all of the missed calls and missed words could be rectified if only he would let her in on the game, let her be able to play all fairly. She could protect him. She knows she could. The same way he protects her. He just has to trust her. He just has to give her leverage, say, knowledge. He just has to let her in. And now, here, off all places; the time is now or never. She knows this.

She feels it in her flesh that _this_ is a moment of impact.

"Lizzie—

"Please, Red. What's so awful? Tell me. I _know_ it would put me at risk, but—

"Lizzie," he breaks off, taking another step forward. He's shaking his head. Something dark in his eyes.

"I'm already at risk," she barters. "I _need_ to know."

And she's desperate. There's an edge to her tone, a pace to her words that could almost come across as maniacal with her state and flailing hands, the bend of her knees as she's trying to get him to pay attention to take her seriously. _Please, Red. Please trust me. Please let me in._

" _Lizzie, no_ —

"Red, I don't care what you did, but you have to tell me, you have to—

"Elizabeth."

And she's starting to hyperventilate, chest clenching with the strain of begging. _Please. Please._

"Red, I need you to tell me _right now._ Right now, I need you," and yeah, she's gasping, she's—

"Lizzie—

"Red, I need you to tell me— _Red—_

And she's thinking _please, let him want me_ and _please, let me be his equal. Let me be his equal. Let me be his. This will change the whole game. Let me be capable. Let me be more than someone he has to protect. Let him want me to be more, to be worthy._

"NO," Red snarls, and it's sudden, the change in his demeanor. A man that's been pushed. Pushed too far. His face contorts in a mask, a grimace, and his eyes are black as flint, and it's raining and the apartment was so humid, but suddenly gooseflesh breaks out over Lizzie's skin, and everything, everything, _everything_ around her slows down. The world stops spinning, and she's left standing there. In front of him.

And God, he's never raised his voice with her. He's been petulant, and snide, and disgusted, but never furious. Never hateful. Never, but now he is, and God, Lizzie goes white like he's physically slapped her.

He spits the words fast, snake-like, venom seeping. Getting his point across efficiently. He stares at her without blinking, directly in the eye. Honest. True.

"You really don't _get it,_ do you, _Agent Keen?_ You're acting like— you're acting like a goddamn four-year-old—

And God, she jerks back a little. The pain takes her breath away, and her mouth is open and her eyes are wide, but she can't move the muscles in her face, and it's silly, because she is. He's right, she is, but—

"—I mean, do you _not_ know what _no_ means?"

And there, that's the snide Red she knows. But he's off beat, somehow. No. No, that's not it. This isn't in jest. This isn't for comedic effect. He means it. He means everything he's saying, and she knows this instinctually. He's unfiltered. He's saying what he believes, what he really thinks, and—

"The answer is _no_ ," Red grits out, still seething. "The answer will continue to be _no._ So either stop asking me or get out. _Get out_ or— _"_

Another step forward, and he's finally within her personal space. Months ago, in the belly of a ship, he'd taken her in his arms from this distance apart. Held her and told her there wasn't anything wrong with her. Told her the truth, and he's telling her the truth now, and suddenly the way he—

The way he'd held her seems juvenile. Seems trite. Ruined.

"Stop. Asking. Me," he hisses pointedly, and Lizzie closes her eyes when he steps away. Animalistic. An animal within her. An animal wounded. An animal dying.

Shattering. His words are enough to _shatter_ her, but she doesn't. She does not cry. She does not speak, really. Just sways. Focuses on her feet. The hair on her arms standing on end. Freezing. God, she's freezing. Everything is so quiet, and so cold, and she can hear the rain coming down just as hard, and it's the aftermath of the war that shows the blood, and he almost died.

He almost died, and he's probably very tired. And he's already given her so many answers, hasn't he?

Oh, she's silly. Oh, she feels so ashamed, and filled with the knowledge that she shouldn't have wanted more because he's right. She has no right to know. She's good at this. She's good at being a doll, a child, and instead of proving herself capable she's done nothing but prod, but hassle.

She doesn't recognize the sound of her own voice. "Okay, then."

He's turned around again, shifting dishes in the sink. The water turns on, and Lizzie takes a step backward. And another. And another. Mouth moving on its own accord, and she doesn't so much as talk as string words together, broken meaning that cannot convey every morsel of shame. In the bloodline, right? Shame is in the bloodline.

Huh.

Red thinks of her as a child. A weak child.

And when she realizes this, Lizzie forgets how to swallow the right way.

"I'm sorry," she tries to say, but it _is_ childlike. So small. She feels so goddamn small. "I need to go," she whispers, garbles. Darts, quick, quick. Towards the door.

"Thanks for the towel," she garbles, and that's the way she's says goodbye.

She hangs the towel on a brown, wooden coat rack. The material so heavy. Everything feels so heavy.

And God, she's stumbling. Her legs aren't moving right. Everything is so loud in her head, and she knows he's turned around and found her gone by the time she unlocks the deadbolt because she can hear him, distant, distant:

"Lizzie? Lizzie."

And she shakes and shakes. It's because she's still in damp clothes, really, but everything is quaking, and down the flight of stairs she tears, right into Dembe's sturdy chest. He's carrying grocery bags. His expression is one of concern.

"Liz?"

But she can't talk. She can't.

She flies past him, keeps going.

Groceries. Groceries, and he had Campbell's soup on the stove, and this is his home, if he has one. _Get out,_ he'd said. _Get out._ She's not welcome here. And God, how much she'd wanted to be welcome here, and she was, wasn't she? He'd given her a towel. He'd touched her shoulder, squeezed her arm unprompted. And she ruined it. She ruins. She ruins, and she burns everything in her path.

Of course Red wouldn't trust her with the knowledge of this apartment, of circumstances in which the government rests fate. She doesn't even trust herself.

It _is_ still raining, but this time she feels every trace the droplets leave on her flesh. Cold, sharp, like knives. She can't remember where she's parked. Everything is so dark, save the yellow street light. Everything is so dark.

She manages to spot her vehicle on a crapshoot, fingers trembling to fish the key out of her pocket. She can't see anything for how the rain blinds her, but finally, finally she's in. She soaks her leather seats, but once she's inside she doesn't take a moment of hesitation to ponder, to think. She doesn't want to think.

The streets are starting to flood mildly, but it's the first intersection that it happens.

She's stopped on red, hears her phone vibrate across the console.

Nick's Pizza.

And yeah, yeah, she shouldn't have answered it. But she did.

Maybe missed calls, and missed words—it's anybody's guess, really.

" _Lizzie,"_ she'd heard him, once. A gun aimed at his head.

"Red," is what he hears. She says his name, and the light turns green, and she's not paying any attention to the other car. And the other car isn't paying any attention to her.

Lizzie's vision bursts as she jerks forward, smashing, black and white.

Later, she won't know this, but Red _heard_ her say his name.

He heard the sound of metal on metal.

He heard the sound of Lizzie's pained scream, felt the resonance straight up his spine; blood curdling.

Heard her scream just before the line went quiet; silent.

Dead.

.

.

.


End file.
